


Blood & Water (excerpt)

by elysichor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky looks out for Steve, Revenge is neat, Scheming about poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysichor/pseuds/elysichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge isn't normally Bucky's way, but when Steve's hurt this bad, it seems like the best option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood & Water (excerpt)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt of a much longer fic I'm working on. Basically, Steve and his mother live with this guy, Jackson (his relationship to them is as of yet undecided). In this excerpt, Steve is 13, and Bucky is 15.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s hushed voice echoed in the alley—and so did the choked sobs, which Steve was obviously trying to muffle.  Bucky crept forward until he could see him huddled in the shadows, curled in a ball, his hands gripping his arms tightly.  “Steve, what…” he bent next to his friend and gently touched his shoulder; Steve involuntarily stiffened and lurched away.  He was trembling violently, so Bucky reached out again and placed a hand on the back of his head.  “Hey,” he whispered, “Steve, what happened?”  His stomach was sick from seeing Steve like this, and his heart was rapidly pumping cold fear throughout his body, but he stayed still and calm.  He had to be calm for Steve.  He’d been searching for him for close to an hour, ever since he’d heard the shouting as he passed Steve’s house.  Now that he’d found him, he should be relieved.  He wasn’t.

Steve, meanwhile, shook his head and buried it deeper in his arms.  He was sobbing He was sobbing violently in the way one couldn’t control, much less keep quiet; his entire body shuddered with each one, his cries sending bursts of anxiety through Bucky.

“Steve,” Bucky repeated, but his voice was shaky now.  “Steve, please tell me—”

“No,” Steve gasped out.  “No, no, just go away!”

Bucky seized Steve’s forearms and pulled them away from his face; when he caught a glimpse of it, however, he released them, stunned.

In silence he sat for several long minutes while Steve sobbed next to him.  He was shaky now too, and felt like throwing up.  This wasn’t something he ever thought he would have to deal with, and he didn’t know what to do.

Finally Steve’s sobs died down to quiet whimpers, and Bucky finally managed to repeat simply, “What happened?”

Steve fell silent, his face still buried in his arms.  “Jackson,” he whispered, and took a great, shuddering breath.

Bucky saw red.  His hands balled into fists and oh, yes, he was trembling, but now it was out of rage.  “Why?” he asked through gritted teeth—as if the ‘why’ made any difference.

“It was my fault,” Steve whispered.  “I knew he was in a bad mood when he got home, and I got so scared when he asked Ma for his pack, because he thinks only she knows where he keeps ‘em, and oh God, oh dear God…” his babbling trailed off as another harsh sob escaped him.  Bucky gripped his shoulder firmly this time.  “Go on.”

“I hate him smoking,” Steve choked out.  “It makes Mom sick, and he knows it does, but he doesn’t care.  I thought…maybe…if there was none of the stuff in ‘em to smoke, he’d give up…so I went and found where he keeps ‘em, and I took out every bit of tobacco.  When…when he lit one it just burned and burned right up to his lips, just like that, and Jesus, Bucky, I’ve never seen him so angry, oh _God_ , I thought I was gonna die!” he lifted his face to look at Bucky, and Bucky looked stonily back, then wrapped his arms around Steve as the smaller boy broke out crying again.

“He went after Ma,” Steve gasped between sobs, “and I had to _scream_ that I was the one who did it before he would believe me, but he h-hit her anyway before he yanked me up and drag…dragged me d-downstairs into the basement.  I begged him to stop and Ma begged him to stop but he said if she didn’t get back upstairs, or if she called the police, he would kill me, and oh God, I believed him, Buck, I believed him with all my heart.”

“Where is he now?” Bucky asked in a dangerous voice.  Steve looked up at him fearfully and shouted, “No!  No, Bucky, don’t you goddamn dare!  S-Stay away from him!”

“I’m not stupid.  I won’t go near him,” Bucky said calmly.  “Where is he?”

Steve took several deep breaths before he answered.  “When he…when he let me go…he told Mom he was goin’ to get a case of beer from the supermarket, and for her to c-clean me up because I’ve missed enough school days and folks’ll start getting nosey.”  He squeezed his eyes shut.  “Soon as he was gone, though, I ran.”

“Can you stand?” Bucky asked Steve abruptly, and, somewhat surprised, Steve nodded.  Bucky eased him to his feet, another hot flash or rage zipping through him when Steve favored his left leg.  He hooked his arm around Steve’s waist, slung Steve’s arm over his neck, and helped him down the alley out onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t want to go home,” Steve told him fervently.  “He’ll be waiting to scream at me, he always does after he’s hurt me, he finds me and he _screams_ and reminds me how it’s all my fault.”

“What’s your fault, Steve?” Bucky asked calmly, and Steve stumbled over words for a moment before crying, “Everything!”

James struggled a moment with how to respond, how to make Steve understand that being beaten wasn’t his fault at all.  “Well, you’re not going home,” he finally said lamely.  “You’re coming to my place.”

“W-What about my mom?” Steve asked him.  “You don’t get it, Buck, if I’m not there to protect her he’ll start in on her!”

“Being his punching bag is protecting her?” Bucky asked sarcastically, and didn’t give him a chance to respond.  “You might save her a beating every now and then, but it’s killing her on the inside.  Her and me both, and it’s gonna stop.”

“No it won’t,” Steve said, and his voice was tired, weary, frightening.  “He won’t ever go away.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bucky said grimly.

***

Once they had finally made it to Bucky’s house, Bucky led Steve around the back to the hose.  He unscrewed the hose from the spigot, turned it on, then cupped some water in his hands and turned to Steve.  “Get down on your knees,” he instructed, and Steve obeyed, turning his face upwards.  It hurt Bucky like nothing else to look at it.  Bruises the size of dollar coins blossomed over his cheekbones and under his chin; one eye was purple and swollen completely, bloodshot.  He had a gash right along his ear that had spilled blood all over that side of his head and neck.  His nose was bent and bloody.  His lips were cut and split.  Bucky felt the pain of each and every one.

“This might sting,” Bucky warned, and parted his hands above Steve’s battered, broken form.  Steve’s eyes closed automatically as the water flowed down over them like a baptism, caressing the contours of his face and rinsing the blood away painlessly.

Six times Bucky had to do this; six times before the last of the blood was finally gone from Steve’s golden hair.  Six times before Bucky knew, with absolute certainty, what came next.

He helped Steve into the house and into bed, put an ice tray in the freezer for him, and brought him a towel as an afterthought, realizing he hadn’t dried Steve off.  The last thing he needed was Steve catching something on top of all this.

Steve had shed his clothes, soaked with blood and water, and when Bucky walked in he had to stop and turn away for a moment.  The bruises continued down along Steve’s spine, across his chest and stomach, and several more gashes, cuts, and lacerations were visible now.  They would need tended to later, but for now James could only close his eyes and fight off the wave of nausea and dizziness that overtook him.

“Bucky?”

The small, scared voice speaking his name gave him enough strength to open his eyes and walk over.  Steve was peering at him in the way a scared, cornered animal would, and it broke his heart.  He handed Steve the towel.

“Stay put,” he instructed.  “I’m gonna go check on your mom.”

Anxiety immediately overtook Steve’s features.  “But Bucky—”

“Shut it,” Bucky interrupted.  “I’m gonna go check on your mom.  Jackson don’t know you’re here.  Jackson probably don’t even know where ‘here’ is.  I’m just gonna make sure she’s okay, and then I’ll be back.”

Steve looked down and his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.  “Tell her I’m sorry, Buck,” he whispered, and Bucky had to fight not to run out right then and there.  “Tell her I’m sorry I ruined his cigarettes, and I won’t ever do it again.”  He looked back up at Bucky, his decimated face pleading.  “Will you, Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he managed in a strained voice, then turned and all but fled out the back door.  He fell to his knees in the earth, still damp from Steve’s washing, and started shaking.  His heartbeat pounded in his head and he felt like he could be sick any moment now; until this moment he’d been most calm, automatically doing what needed to be done.  Now he allowed himself to completely and totally feel the horror that had been tugging at him from the beginning.

“Dear God,” he gasped, “if you’re real, you’d better damn well do something about this, because Steve doesn’t deserve any of this shit, and I don’t know how the hell to help him.”  He wanted to go on, but couldn’t.  The horror of it all was overpowering; when he had come across his mother, dead in her bed from an addiction she always insisted was no big deal, he thought he’d seen the worst life had in store for him.  He never dreamed he would be washing and comforting his broken, beaten best friend while he apologized for being beaten in the first place.  Perhaps the most terrible part was that until now, he’d never realized how bad it had been.  Steve had lived with Jackson since he was five, and he’d never said a word.

When the shaking had subsided and the nausea passed, he stood up.  Lost and helpless didn’t even begin to describe how he felt.

But he’d told Steve he would check on his mom, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t do even that for his friend.

He started around the house, and halfway there a gleam of sunlight caught his eye; he stopped and stared.  Tucked under an overhang on a wooden shelf was his kerosene can, most definitely the thing that kept him alive in the winter.  It had been sitting there unused and forgotten ever since the first warm day, and it was as if God Himself had placed it there just so it could shine light into Bucky’s mind right then and there.

Nearly holding his breath, hardly daring to hope, Bucky picked it up.  It was half full, at least.

His heart began racing again, and his hands trembled slightly, but he simply glanced back to make sure Steve hadn’t decided to come poking his nose outside.

Grasping the can, he shoved a hand into his pocket and set off, grim resignation etched on his face.  He guessed maybe God was real after all.

He also guessed Heaven helped those who helped themselves.

***

Steve’s house was silent when he approached, just as the sun was setting.  It scared the life out of him, and he had to set the can down under the steps so he didn’t shake all the kerosene right out.  He edged along the side of the house until he came to a window, then peered in.  Through the gauzy curtains he could see the living room; the lights were off, but the ones in the kitchen were on, casting a faint glow into the living room.  Bucky strained to see into the room for a while, then sucked in a breath when the kitchen’s glow was interrupted by a shadow.  The living room lights came on, and in walked Steve’s mother.  She didn’t have any visible wounds, but when she walked she did so gingerly, slightly hunched over.  She reminded James of what he’d read once, how cats never showed their pain even if they were dying.  Sinking into one of the armchairs, looked about the room aimlessly for a moment, then buried her face in her hands.

Bucky wished he could tell her that Steve was okay, even if he was using ‘okay’ loosely.  He was alive and he wasn’t actively getting punched; but Bucky could see no way to tell her that without knocking on the door, which would alert Jackson.

Shit.  Where was the bastard, anyway?

Bucky turned slowly around, his heart pounding, and let out a sigh of relief that Jackson was not, in fact, standing right behind him as if he were in a horror movie.  He didn’t think he was in the house, either; Steve had mentioned he’d gone to the supermarket, but surely Jackson wouldn’t leave Steve’s mom alone too long, for fear she might call somebody.

So that meant he was still here somewhere.  That meant he was in the shed.

Bucky walked silently to the back of the house and peered around.  Sure enough, a light was on in the shed, and his heart took up pounding again.  His luck was amazing, and he glanced upwards and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Quietly he hurried back to the steps, retrieved the can, and returned to his place at the corner.  He could hear faint pounding and scraping from inside the shed, and figured he’d better hurry before whatever was occupying Jackson got boring.

He pressed his back against the front wall of the shed, then slowly peered around into the only window; Jackson was working on something with his back to Bucky—and as hoped for, his new case of beer was sitting at the front of the shed, with only one missing so far.

Bucky dropped to all fours and crawled to the doorway of the shed; unfortunately he would have to go into the shed to continue his plan, but it was so cluttered he figured it would be easy to hide.

He waited until Jackson picked up a saw, then scurried inside and hid under a workbench.  He was so close to the beer that he could read the fine print about how they weren’t responsible for the shit you did while drunk, like beating up thirteen-year-olds, for example.

He set the can down gingerly (ignoring the powerful, acrid smell) and snaked an arm out for the case.  He held his breath, feeling as if he were going to burst, and snagged a bottle, pulling it under the bench with him.

For a moment he did nothing.  He lay there silent, clutching the bottle and listening to the sounds of Jackson working.  Then, carefully, he gripped the cap and twisted.  Steve had mentioned once that Jackson always used a bottle opener, so he wouldn’t notice if a cap wasn’t as tight as the rest.  It let out a little hiss when he loosened it enough to turn it, and he bit his tongue, sweat trickling down his forehead—but Jackson didn’t notice.

The bottle was full up to half the neck with beer, but pouring it out was far too risky; who knew where the puddle could snake off to?  So, screwing his face up determinedly, Bucky took a swig of the beer.  He had to clap a hand to his mouth to keep from coughing and spewing it; it tickled his throat sort of like soda, but stronger, and the taste was bitter.  He forced it down, his eyes watering, and took a few breaths before downing another swig.  The second went down easier than the first, and while the bottle was still mostly full, it now had enough room for Bucky’s own addition.  He set the bottle down on the ground, picked up the kerosene can, and tilted the nozzle over the open neck of the bottle.  Watery, pinkish liquid ran out of the can into the bottle, causing a pale cloud in the amber liquid that at once concerned Bucky.  He estimated about one-fourth of what had been in the can had gone into the bottle, so he set the can down and inspected the beer.  It was significantly lighter than before, and now Bucky realized that one taste of this stuff and Jackson would know something was wrong; no way he was gonna drink enough to kill him.  Desperately he screwed the cap back on and shook it, making sure to time the shakes with the strokes of Jackson’s saw.  The color didn’t change, but when he took the cap back off it didn’t smell as strong, which made him feel a bit better.  He sat undecided for a moment, then scooped up a handful of dirt from the floor and poured it into the bottle as well.  Who knew?  It might dilute the taste even more, and if not, well, Jackson deserved to eat dirt.  He considered spitting in the bottle as a final insult-to-injury, but figured enough was enough and he’d better get his ass back home before Steve got worried and tried something dumb like looking for him.

He screwed the cap on as tightly as he could manage, then slipped it back into the case.  Aside from the slightly lighter hue, it looked the same as the rest of them; Bucky was quite proud of the fact that the even the level of liquid was relatively the same as the others.

Taking up the kerosene can, Bucky realized that getting out of the shed would be much harder than getting in.  He couldn’t see Jackson at all; the only way he could tell what he was doing was by the various sounds his work produced.  Banging, whirring, sawing.  Bucky wondered what the hell it could be that Jackson was building, then decided he’d rather not know.

He’d been lying there for probably ten minutes before he decided to just make a run for it; his limbs were starting to fall asleep and anyway, Jackson worked with his back to the door.  If he was quiet, he should be able to slip out unnoticed.

The first part was easing himself out from under the workbench.  It didn’t take too long, only Bucky had to make sure not to bump anything or drag his hips and legs across the ground as he slid out.  He began mentally preparing himself again to run, but then footsteps chilled his heart and sent him lunging around the side of the workbench.

Jackson bent over the case of beer and lifted one out; then came the sound of the top being popped off.  Bucky chanced a glance and saw with shock and excitement that he had chosen the kerosene beer.

That was it.  As soon as Jackson turned to head back to his project, Bucky rushed out, tearing across the lawn and down the sidewalk, never slowing until he reached his house.  He made sure to put the kerosene can back before he entered, then walked as quietly as he could to his room.

The sun was long gone by now, and the only light in the room was the moon’s soft glow.  It shone over Steve, still and silent in sleep, and the pale luminosity seemed to wash away his bruises, cuts, and scars, something that caused Bucky a great amount of envy.

“Yeah, you make him look fixed,” he said tiredly, not caring that he was talking to _moonbeams_.  “But I’m gonna fix him on the inside, too.”

He kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, then slowly walked to the bed and looked down at Steve.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry you had to deal with this shit alone.”

The bed was the only one he had, so he crawled into bed next to Steve, tucking the blanket securely around the both of them.  As he lay there he trained his eyes on Steve’s sleeping face and the sickening garden of bruises that covered it.  That night he made a vow: from now until he died, he would never let Steve suffer again.  He would be there to protect him.  Nothing would hurt him ever again, as long as Bucky was there.

“Till the end of the line, Steve,” he whispered.  “Now and forever.”


End file.
